Parte the Seconde

Since Saturday went so well, Mom invited my Partner & I over on Sunday. She promised that no surprise guests would turn up, so Partner & I duly drove over to that bastion of dungeonliness.

Ma, Pa, & Stanley were watching the third Fast & Furious movie at an incredibly high volume. They refused to turn it down or turn it off, so Partner & I were a bit confused. Surely, we thought, they're completely clueless as to how rude this must seem. If they're busy, we can come at another time...

Partner & I sighed, collected bowls of food, and trooped off to the living room to dine together in [relative] quietude. Looking around for something with which to entertain Partner, I spotted a family photograph album. Intrigued, I turned the pages slowly, marvelling at things like stamps collected over decades, pictures of my parents when they were young, a picture of my molester --

This is where that screechy sound of brakes being applied for all they're worth comes in.

I freeze, and at that moment my mother walks in. I ask her, "Can I rip him out of the photograph?"

She Flips Out.

She says NO!, that she doesn't want her pictures ripped up. I am shocked. Literally. I can't even move; all I can do is stare at her face, mouth flapping open & closed as she spews vile all over me. I think that, although mommy-slapping is not usually my thing, I would nevertheless savour the opportunity to slap the shit out of her at this moment. I say to her, "Oh, well, that's fine then. He's just the person who molested me. He only ruined my childhood, my adolescence, oh yes and my young adulthood --" She interrupts me by shouting (yes, she is shouting at this point -- and beginning to sob rather uncontrollably) that she tried her best, that I did not tell her what happened so how could she possibly have known? I should have told her! Because blaming the victim is what mommy does best.

Life is and always has been all about Her. She doesn't know how I am feeling; she doesn't care. She saw that interaction as, "You failed as a parent." Not as, "This picture hurts me. May I get rid of it?" When I called her this morning to see if she'd come to her senses, she still defended her decision to protect her precious photographs.

I have made an executive decision: My parents win the Defective Parenting Award.